


Phake or Real?

by csquared225



Series: Codas to Agents of SHIELD [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, LMD?, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sort of; whatever is happening to Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/csquared225/pseuds/csquared225
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil’s still having nightmares. Clint fixes that. (With sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phake or Real?

**Author's Note:**

> A coda to episode eight. I sincerely hope our Phil isn’t a Phake ;A; He’s Phil enough for us, right? (As long as he isn’t like, a Skrull or something.)

Clint woke to a choked off gasp, eyes opening immediately. He tensed instinctively for a split second, hand going for the gun under his pillow, before his body realized who was next to him, and he relaxed only to stiffen again.

 

Another nightmare, he thought grimly. Phil was shaking on the sheets next to him, body as tense as a board, and panting like he’d just run a marathon.

 

“Hey, it’s okay, shhh….Phil, I’m here. It’s me, Clint, I love you and I’m here,” he murmured softly, careful to rub at his side instead of his back. Phil had been twitchy about being touched in his upper arms or back lately, something to do with what he dreamed; sometimes he’d comment about a fleeting memory of a massage of some sort and a female voice, but other than that it remained fuzzy.

 

Either way, the archer wasn’t about to do something that triggered him. Phil had made sure to stay to his right side, keeping entrances and exits clear for the first year of his time at SHIELD because he knew how trapped Clint felt without a way to get out and that his depth perception was less on his left. He could do this for him in return.

 

“I--I’m sorry,” his lover panted, rubbing a hand over his face and flipping onto his back, wincing at the phantom pain from the scar. It didn’t even really hurt; he knew if he rubbed it it would be numb. It was like his mind was trying to substitute in something that wasn’t really there but was supposed to be. “I don’t know what happened, it was that dream again, but this time, there was something different.”

 

“It’s okay, Phil. What was different?”

 

Clint soothed him, reaching over to turn on the light. It cast a warm, reassuring glow on both of them, making the nightmares that much less real. Phil licked his lips and tried to get back to that in-between state of dream and awake.

 

“The woman’s voice. It was more….no, less real,” he said, eyes snapping open. “Like what you’d think JARVIS should sound like.”

 

“Robotic?” Clint filled in, brow furrowed. JARVIS sounded remarkably lifelike, modeled after Tony’s late butler Jarvis, the billionaire had confided in him once after he’d been awake for four days and he’d been tasked with getting him to bed. No arc reactor or not, he still pushed himself hard.

 

Robotic….this lent to the theory that Phil had never really been to Tahiti at all. Some kind of virtual world to let Phil’s mind think it was getting the rest and relaxation it so desperately needed? Or wherever he’d been and whatever had really happened was so traumatizing that they’d felt the need to insert a different memory to keep him from self-imploding, perhaps literally, if the LMD theory lent any weight....

 

He shook off that thought. He’d theorize later. Right now, Phil was still pale and his eyes were glassy, forehead shining with sweat.

 

“Come on, prop yourself up a bit more...there,” Clint helped him, fluffing the pillows in back of him. He reached over where he’d set a glass of water before bed and got him to take a few sips, massaging at his temples to relax him in the way he knew Phil liked.

 

“Clint, you don’t have to…” Phil protested as weakly as ever. They both knew this was what he needed. A little TLC that he rarely allowed himself, or allowed Clint to give to him even though he often insisted on providing it anyway.

 

In response, Clint simply kissed his forehead and continued massaging, humming softly. When Phil had effectively turned into a puddle of relaxation, he brought him back out of it again, kiss to the forehead sliding down his cheek to his jaw. His heart rate immediately began climbing again as his blood heated, and his cock twitched in interest between his legs.

 

“You respond just like you ever did.” Clint nuzzled at his neck, pressing a kiss in the spot he knew made Phil weak at the knees; he wasn’t proven wrong when his lover melted against him. “You feel like Phil to me.”

 

Phil sighed and forced his mind to clear, focusing on the pleasure his lover was giving him.

 

“Feels the same,” he murmured, gasping when Clint bit down on that same sensitive spot. “I’m sure I bruise the same too,” he said wryly when Clint sucked on the mark. “Trying to claim me, Barton?”

 

“You’re already mine,” Clint replied easily, nosing at his jaw again. “This just reaffirms it. Lift up for me.” Phil automatically complied, lifting his hips and letting Clint slide down his boxers.

 

“Clint, what about you?” He protested when Clint made no move to strip down himself. His archer shook his head, smiling.

 

“Let me take care of you, okay? You’ve taken care of me plenty.” Without waiting to hear any protestation, Clint began to stroke more quickly than he usually would have started out with, but he wanted Phil to get some sleep tonight sooner rather than later. The man hadn’t been getting enough sleep, robot or not.

 

Clint knew just how to stroke him, firm but not too firm, with a steady pace and an occasional swipe of his thumb to the head, dipping his fingernail in to scritch lightly at the slit, not too roughly. Phil was moaning and thrusting into his grip in no time, face beautifully flushed (“Glistening!” Phil would insist) and gasping Clint’s name.

 

“If--ah!--If I am a robot, I’m filing a complaint...complaint about my stamina in this area,” he panted, squeezing his eyes shut. There was a warmth melting down from the bottom of his spine, and his balls were already drawing up, ready to spill their load. Clint huffed and tugged on his earlobe with his teeth, speeding up.

 

“I’m just that awesome, no problems on your end, gorgeous,” he breathed into his ear, and his other hand must have snuck down earlier, because another finger was pressing firmly behind his balls. “Come.”

 

Phil couldn’t have disobeyed if he’d wanted too, spilling into Clint’s fist. He finally had to press him away when he became to sensitive. He was officially a puddle of goo, and could barely bring himself to groan again when Clint licked his hand off and must have passed out for a second, because he was cleaned soon after.

 

“But what about you?” he murmured again, frowning. He clumsily reached for the erection pressing into his thigh, but Clint gently seized his wrist and set it back down onto the sheets.

 

“No, it’s okay. I just want you to sleep. That’s what’ll make me happiest right now, okay?” Phil mumbled a protest, but his eyes were already sliding shut. Phake or not, he was content for now, and he’d take that any day.

 

**The End**


End file.
